


Nothing Burns Like The Cold

by wildxwired



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accident, Husbands, I googled survival tips, M/M, Medication misuse, Minor Injuries, Post Season 5, Trapped, h/c, snowstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 22:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildxwired/pseuds/wildxwired
Summary: The last place Patrick expects to discover himself is trapped in a snow storm with nothing but his past for company.





	Nothing Burns Like The Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> David/Patrick. One is stranded and/or hurt bc of a winter storm and the other searches and comforts the other. Angst/hurt level up to you.
> 
> MASSIVE THANKS and endless love to thegrayness and blitz, without whom this fic would not exist.

For the first time in three days, Patrick doesn’t wake up wishing he hadn’t. The light doesn’t come screaming into his eyes like the sting of a thousand pissed-off bees and his head isn’t weighted to the pillow with thick concrete layers of pain. There’s still _something_ there, discomfort niggling away behind his eyes like a delayed hangover, but the absence of hell from the neck up is like the most wonderful wave of relief washing over him.

He rolls onto his side to find his husband slowly stirring from sleep, reluctant and soft as always. Patrick drops a kiss onto his shoulder, and David smiles as he drops a second kiss and then another, working his way up to tongue at the ticklish patch of skin behind David’s ear, just to check nothing has changed since the last time he got to taste him there. 

“Someone’s feeling better,” David mumbles around a sleepy smile and Patrick pulls himself on top of his husband so he can show him exactly how much better he’s feeling. 

Three days of blistering migraines have felt like a month in the darkest prison, with his body playing the part of the cruelest warden. No light, no food, no entertainment, no affection, no work—just a dark room and David’s leftover migraine medication from his last bout just before the wedding. It’s been a pathetic existence, the only thing keeping him going has been the strong embrace of David’s care as he changed Patrick’s cool gel forehead strips every 4 hours, made him take tiny sips of water, kept the house as dark as humanly possible and whispered Patrick to sleep with stories about his day and updates on the store. 

Patrick rids David of his sweatpants and pulls off his own, kissing along David’s collar bone and throat as he dips a hand into the bedside table to pull out the slender bottle of warming lube. David groans beneath him, already achingly hard with morning wood as Patrick squirts a puddle of lube onto David‘s stomach before sliding his fingers through it and shifting to press them against David’s wanting hole. 

With a gasp and then a content sigh, David opens for him easily, raising his knees a little higher so that Patrick can work him open further still. He pulls his fingers free and buries his face into David’s neck as he slicks himself up and pushes inside, immediately welcomed by David’s tight warmth. 

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” David whispers, hands gripping Patrick’s biceps, legs coiling around his waist, the pads of his bare feet pressing against Patrick’s lower back as he encourages him deeper with each thrust. He presses hard into David, all the way to the hilt until he’s completely surrounded by the pull of his husband’s body, before pulling out swiftly, smooth and well-practiced until he can push in slowly again. 

When David slides a hand into Patrick’s hair, Patrick allows himself to be guided into a melting kiss. “Missed you,” he groans into David’s open mouth, relishing in the ability to taste all the parts of David’s tongue he’s missed over the last three days. 

“You too,” David nods, scraping his blunt nails through the short hairs at the base of Patrick’s skull as he kisses him messily. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”

Patrick knows they’d both love to take their time. With work and the new house and then Patrick’s migraines, it’s been just over a fortnight since they last fucked, and that combined with a back-to-normal workday ahead leaves them with just enough time for a morning quickie—the kind they used to have almost every morning when they first moved in together. 

It’s just a few minutes later when Patrick’s thrusts start to falter as he stutters towards the edge of orgasm. “David, fuck—m’close, so close,” Patrick pants and David moves to wrap a hand around his own erection, but Patrick quickly waves it away. “Mine,” he growls. 

“Yeah, yours, yours yours yours,” David babbles desperately before throwing his head back into the pillow and coming between them. Patrick follows closely, spilling into David and calling his name as he pulls the rest of David’s orgasm from him. 

After a moment, Patrick smiles and kisses David, who hums with delight and eagerly accepts the sweet kiss. When they pull back, David presses his lips to Patrick’s temple. 

“Glad you’re feeling better, honey.”

*

“Remember you’re supposed to pick up that new order of mulled wine today from the Hampshire sisters,” David says with his lips resting over the rim of his coffee mug. He inhales appreciatively before taking a slow sip. 

Patrick pulls the lightly burnt toast from the toaster and pulls a face. “All the way in Elmgrove? That’s a full day on a single errand. Why do I have to do it?”

Stealing the toast from Patrick’s grasp to slather it in organic raspberry jam, David snorts and shoots Patrick a playful glare. “I’m sorry, would you rather go to the store today and run the workshop on winter skincare with Jocelyn’s highschool class?”

Patrick grimaces and shakes his head. “No, thank you.” David smiles smugly before handing him back the toast. 

“So, you’ll go get the wine?”

With a sigh, Patrick bobs his head. “Yeah, I’ll go get the wine.”

“Good,” David says triumphantly, dipping to press a quick kiss to Patrick’s cold lips before pressing a flask of hot tea into his hands. “Wrap up and be careful, please. There’s a lot more snow and ice than a few days ago.”

“Yes, dear,” Patrick pokes, laughing when David shoots a stern scowl his way. 

*

It’s almost a three hour drive to the winery in Elmgrove, and the last time Patrick made the venture was late summer when he wasn’t recovering from a disgusting migraine attack. He doesn’t really mind car rides alone, though that’s not to say he minds them with David either. It’s just that it’s quite nice to be in his own company when he isn’t miserable and sick; when his thoughts don’t rattle around his brain like balls of soggy newspaper. Plus he gets to listen to Fleetwood Mac without David trying to convince him that Stevie Nicks is secretly a witch. 

He’s just over halfway there, whistling happily along to _Don’t Stop_, when the snow starts to fall. It’s light for the first few minutes, barely noticeable as it flutters on top of the snowdrifts already piled high from the plows. They hadn’t been all that high the last time Patrick drove in the snow, but they’re probably close to triple that height now. Patrick’s incredibly glad he always opts for the sensible tires, and the car crunches over the ground easily. Despite the roads being close to deserted, he makes sure to stick to the speed limit, if not a little below. David pulls a face whenever Patrick drives above it, and he wouldn’t want to give his husband the smug satisfaction of being right about everything by getting a dent in the car. Patrick frowns as the snow begins to fall even heavier, the delicate flakes now fat frozen drops as they plunge down onto the windshield. 

“That better not stick,” he mumbles to no one. He vaguely considers turning back because he definitely does _not_ want to get stranded so far from home overnight, not when he’s finally feeling better and there’s so much to do, but they really need this shipment and the snow will probably ease up soon. He cranks the heater and continues on. 

Nearing the end of his third listen through of Rumours and with just under ten miles to go, Patrick looks up to grimace at the rapidly falling snow. It’s coming down thicker now, a fresh blanket cloaking the road every few seconds or so. Patrick grips the steering wheel and leans forward, craning his neck to glare at the sky as if that might somehow make it stop. It’s something his husband does often, and though it very rarely yields the desired results, Patrick has to admit that glowering at the sky with contempt does make him feel a little better. Just a smidge. 

As he reaches to turn off the music, a slick slab of smooth black ice sends the tires sliding across the road. The steering wheel locks and as Patrick yanks on it, the car shudders violently over to the side of the road. As the car hurtles itself into a dizzying donut, the world around Patrick slows, like the earth has been dipped in tar, slow and pulling and sickening. It robs the breath from Patrick’s chest and he gasps violently against it as the wheel finally gives, obeying previous orders and pulling the car out of its spin only to slam deep into the snowdrift. 

The last thing Patrick remembers is the darkness that entombs him. 

*

Dripping. Strangely warm and thick. Something is slithering down Patrick’s cheek, dripping down his skin and stubble. It’s the first thing he registers when the world starts to waft back over him like an unpleasant smell. That and tingling. His fingers are tingling. He can feel static shoot through his fingertips, but he can’t seem to open his eyes. 

Beeping. Something is beeping, dull and monotonous and as annoying as his morning alarm. Patrick forces his eyes to crack open, and as soon as they do, a strange, bright light filters in, assaulting his vision with a hundred burning pinpricks. He tries to groan but the sound doesn’t make it past his lips, rattling around inside his head instead. 

Patrick doesn’t realise his head is hanging forward until he’s finally able to prise his eyes completely open. He’s looking at his lap and the dark spots that are soaking into his jeans. He focuses on them and tries to remember what it’s like to breathe. 

The world rushes back like a crashing wave and the force of it sends Patrick’s head thudding back against the headrest with a guttural groan. Pain skitters up his neck and fires up the back of his skull like a sparkler, bright and burning until it slowly fizzles. He brings a hand to his head and immediately yelps. 

There’s blood smeared across the back of his hand but there’s no visible cut. He feels like his wrist has been crumpled, trapped under a great weight even as he holds it gently in his other hand. It doesn’t look broken or misshapen; he feels like I should be completely mangled but it’s only red and slightly swollen. 

After a few slow deep breaths, Patrick allows his eyes a brief scan over his body, checking for other injuries and the source of the blood smear. It turns out there’s a cut on the side of his head, small but sharp as the discomfort is more obvious now that he knows it’s there. He touches it again lightly, groaning at the shock of pain that shoots through his temples. 

The dull beeping swings back to the front of his senses, irritating the vicious headache that’s pressing heavily against his skull. When he looks up to squint at the check engine light and half a dozen other lights flashing away, he suddenly catches a glimpse of the windshield, and with a plummeting feeling in his stomach, he realises where the blue hue that engulfs the car is coming from. 

Snow surrounds the car almost completely and Patrick is now very aware of the air around him. He slows his breath to a stutter as though he’s already used too much oxygen and his eyes dart frantically around the front of the car, looking for any glimmer of daylight. There is none. 

He reaches for the keys and turns them, but the ignition just clicks uselessly at him before giving out completely. He huffs, frustrated, and when he pulls the key out of the ignition the beeping stops—at least that’s something. Catching his breath, he closes his eyes and breathes slowly as the silence encloses him like the snow. 

*

It takes a full fifteen minutes of prickling ignorance before Patrick can open his eyes again. He’s managed to slow his breath and his mind enough to try and take stock of the situation, opening his eyes and surveying the snow again. 

“Okay,” he says firmly. “_Okay_.”

Other than being trapped in the snow and unable to start, there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the car that he can see. He tries the keys in the ignition once more, knowing it’s most likely hopeless but needing to try anyway. The engine clicks and struggles for a few moments before silencing itself finally. 

Patrick reaches for his phone in the centre console, relieved to find it undamaged and still working. There’s no signal, and though he’d expect nothing less out here his heart still sinks as he stares at the empty bars. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles, trying and failing not to let his eyes glance over his lock screen photo—a gorgeous picture of his husband standing proudly behind a large pumpkin with the Rose Apothecary logo carved into it. He lets his thumb hover briefly over David’s face before quickly locking the phone and pressing it hard against his thigh as he sucks in another steady breath. 

There’s pain crackling through the nerves in the back of his head, dragging the migraine from the darkness into the dull blue light of the snow. 

“Okay,” Patrick whispers. “Let’s...let’s try to get out. Let’s try the doors.”

He leans over with his good hand and pulls very gently on the handle until he feels a click. He pushes slightly, but nothing happens. Putting a little more weight behind the next shove, he pushes again, but the snow has packed tightly around the car like a protective cocoon. Other than a draft of cold air whooshing into the car, nothing else happens. 

Patrick huffs, his hot breath burning his cold nostrils as they flare against his fear, trying desperately to keep all worst-case scenarios at bay. He leans over to try the passenger door, but it’s much the same. He glances at the sunroof but quickly decides against it. He can see it’s covered, and the last thing he needs is for God knows how much snow to soak him and the car. 

“Okay, okay...check the back.”

With his left wrist held protectively against his chest, Patrick scoots in his seat until he can turn and peer towards the back of the car. There’s snow covering the rear window, but it doesn’t look as tightly packed. He guesses the trunk of the car is probably sticking out of the drift. He could, if he wanted to, try to fight his way out of the rear of the car but...even if he did manage to do that with an open wound and a banged-up wrist - where would he go? 

A vision of himself stumbling dizzily through a blizzard flashes before him, no help in sight and endless blankets of white in every direction. He could end up getting disoriented and lost, pass out somewhere and become covered in heavy layers of falling snow until it slowly crushed him to death. 

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut tight and wills the image away. 

“Okay, so I’ll just stay put,” he says aloud to himself, sucking in a slow breath before opening his eyes again. “The sisters will ring the store and let David know I didn’t show, and then they’ll come looking for me.” He imagines David’s face when he realises that he’s missing, and the anxiety and fear he pictures in David’s eyes makes him ache. It kills him that David’s going to have to worry like that. “It’s just a couple of hours. He’ll be alright—I’ll be alright. Just gotta… wait it out.”

*

For as long as he can, Patrick tries to think about normal life. As if he’s laying in bed late at night with his thoughts, as he’s known to do once in a while, he lets his thoughts drift through the monotony of the store. For a time, it works. In the silence of the snow, he goes through his checklist for the next financial quarter and he almost convinces himself he’s someplace else until he shifts slightly and his wrist throbs painfully. 

“Ah, fuck,” he curses, eyes snapping open as he stares down at his swelling wrist. It’s warm to the touch even through the cold that seeps into the car. 

Unraveling his scarf from around his neck, he knots the ends together and then carefully wraps it around his wrist, firm but not too tight. He slips the loop over his neck, sighing at the relief that floods his muscles as the scarf takes the weight of his arm. 

The scarf is soft against his skin, a warm thick knitted wool in a deep blue. It was a gift from his mother three Christmases ago, she’d bought the same one for David but in a wine sort of maroon colour. David had genuinely liked it—Patrick’s seen his fake happy gift face enough times before to know when his appreciation was genuine. His mother had been delighted, and since then she’s bought them some form of matching gifts with slight taste tweaks. Patrick expects she’s thrilled to have another child to fuss over and dress, even if he is in his early forties. 

He takes a slow deep breath against the headache that’s evolved from a niggle to a scratch, hoping the gulp of oxygen will do something to dull the sharpness of the pain. 

He checks his watch. It’s almost 2:30 in the afternoon. The sisters should have called the store by now looking for him, so it probably won’t be long until people are out searching. 

David’s going to lose his mind over this, Patrick just knows it. He’s going to jump to the worst conclusion, only this time he’ll be right (minus the flaming wreckage and certain death that’s probably running through his husband’s head). It’s going to make David’s anxiety skyrocket for a long while, he’s sure of it. However, the good thing about David’s anxiety is how _driven_ it makes him, so Patrick knows if anyone’s going to make sure he’s found—it’s David. 

David. David. David. 

“David,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes against the tears that threaten to form. 

It’s going to be okay. David will find him and Patrick will help him through all his anxious spirals for the next X amount of winters - fit truck snow chains to the tires of their little car and buy storm shutters for the store - anything that David’s likely to want to prepare for disaster after this is all over. 

He swallows against the tears, prickly and hot as the sadness aggravates his headache, which by now Patrick has to admit is most probably his migraine returning. He presses the heel of his palm to his eye and sniffles, allowing himself to feel pathetic for a few moments before taking a deep breath. 

When he stuffs a hand into his backpack on the passenger seat, looking for the flask of tea David prepared for him this morning, and ends up wrapping his fingers around the sharp silver of the migraine medication he’s been taking for the last few days. He pulls them out and turns the single blister packet over between his fingers. 

A migraine would definitely make this whole ordeal ten times more difficult and probably impair his decision-making ability. They tend to make him sleepy, but maybe sleep is for the best right now, stop him going crazy whilst he waits for rescue. 

He pops a few pills from the packet, a couple more than the recommended dose to help him sleep against the cold, and washes them down with a large glug of tea. It’s still slightly warm, not far off succumbing to the cold, and Patrick’s mouth clings to the warmth as he swallows the pills. 

Turning the key a half circle in the ignition, Patrick hums appreciatively as the heating kicks in and warm air seeps into the car. He’ll keep it in for just a little while, just to get him to sleep - though the slosh of meds and tea and thoughts of David do a pretty good job of that on their own. 

*

Patrick feels fuzzy when he wakes. The light hasn’t changed but the air feels thicker, so he’s not sure how long he’s been out of it. There’s a heavy taste in his mouth that’s usually reserved for mornings, but trapped in his cave of ice he can’t be sure. There’s a prickly dryness in his throat and he swallows against it, smacking his lips together to get through the bitter taste. The heating is still wafting through the air vents. Patrick curses and tugs the key back, silencing the car. He can only hope there’s enough battery left to last until his rescue. 

“What have you gotten yourself into, bug?”

Patrick flinches like his brain has just been flicked, surprised but not awed to find someone in the passenger seat beside him. 

It’s his mom. She’s younger, the years less obvious on her face and the creases lighter around her concerned smile. She looks like she’s been plucked directly from Patrick’s memory—from the morning he left for scout camp for the very first time. He was so uncertain that day, terrified to be away from the protective embrace of his parents. 

_Bug_. She hasn’t called him that since he was 12. He misses it, and now he aches with the realisation of exactly how much. 

“Mom,” he whispers, fighting the urge to sob _mommy_ as he had done that fateful morning, clinging to her waist as she tried to usher him into his coat. “What—what are you doing here?” 

Her eyes are soft and she folds her hands into the lap of her long blue dress. “It’s cold outside. You need to make sure you stay warm.”

Patrick swallows. Even his spit feels frozen as it slides down his throat. “I’m scared,” he admits, and his mother gives a sympathetic nod. 

“I know, bug.”

The air feels colder as he takes another slow breath. He’s not sure if he’s asleep, awake or floating somewhere in between. The edges of his mother’s form are soft against the bluntness of the seat around her. He wishes his dreams were at least warm, but he can still see his breath as he speaks. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

She chuckles kindly the way she used to whenever he got stubborn about something, like not brushing his teeth before bed or wanting ice cream for breakfast. 

“Of course you know what to do. You’re my little survivor, aren’t you? You packed your backpack four times for camp. The most prepared Boy Scout. You earned all your winter badges. You were so proud—asked me to show you how to sew them onto your uniform so you could show them off.”

Patrick smiles weakly at the memory. “I remember.”

“Like it was yesterday,” she adds wistfully, turning to stare out of the window as if she can somehow see beyond the snow that encases him. 

He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the dull pain of his headache starting to bubble beneath his fingertips. “I still don’t know what to do—I don’t know how to get out of this.”

“You always had a problem when it came to confidence. As a baby you were so sure, and then something changed and you withdrew right before my eyes. Happy but sad.” She turns away from the window and stares right into him. “You know who you are, bug, and what you can do. You earned those badges.”

The pain is getting sharper, as though Patrick can feel it piercing slowly through his skull. He presses his head against the headrest, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. 

“How will I know I’m doing the right thing?” 

When she doesn’t respond he opens his eyes, but finds the seat next to him empty. The car is silent and cold, illuminated in the same lonely blue hue as before. He’s not sure if he’s awake yet, so he closes his eyes again and waits. 

*

An unknown amount of time later, Patrick checks the tea thermos only to find it empty. His throat prickles with a cold dryness, and he takes a shaky breath as he realises he’s out of fluids. 

His dad always kept at least a gallon of water in the trunk for emergencies, and Patrick used to huff and roll his eyes as he pushed it out of the way to cram his hockey bag or scout camp gear. Only now he wishes he’d paid more attention, or even continued with camp past middle school when everyone decided survival skills were lame. 

Scout Master Fisher’s voice wafts through his memory. _“Remember the rule of three, boys. The body can last three minutes without oxygen, three days without water and three weeks without food.” _

Patrick wiggles the fingers of his sore arm and groans as delicate sparks of pain shoot from his elbow to his fingertips. How far could he get in this condition? The longer he waits without water, the weaker he’ll become and the less chance he’ll have of being able to make it through the storm. He squeezes his eyes closed tight and almost laughs against the irony of dying of thirst in a cave of frozen water. 

The next thought bolts through him like lightning, so striking that he sits forward too quickly causing a headrush to crash into him and throw him back against the headrest. He curses and breathes. 

“Can’t eat snow,” he whispers to himself. “Can’t eat snow...too cold...dangerous...have to, have to—” his eyes snap open and he can clearly hear Fisher’s voice.

_“If you melt the snow first, you have safe drinking water.”_

*

After carefully letting the window down just enough to allow some snow to tumble into his waiting hands, Patrick holds the cup of his thermos over the heater, watching the fluffy ball slowly melt away. When it’s all dissolved, he lifts the cup cautiously to his mouth and takes a small sip. It tastes strange, like a bottle of water left in the sun, but it feels wonderful as it spills into his body sip by sip. 

With the cup empty, Patrick rests against the seat and sighs—deliriously happy that dying of thirst is no longer in the cards. 

*

The cold holds Patrick possessively tight as he wakes up shivering, teeth clenched so hard it splits his headache with sharp jolts of pain. 

He can’t keep the heaters on all the time. He needs to conserve the battery. However, he also needs to not freeze to death. He thinks about David’s sweaters—thick and comfortable and smelling of David’s moisturiser. He’d give anything to have one of those tucked away in the car, and if he ever gets out of this he’s definitely going to hide a few in here. All he’s ever prepared for is a loss of GPS signal with all his books of road maps. 

_Road maps_.

A bulb dings above his head as he thinks back to camp. Crumpled paper is a good insulator. Of course it is—he’s seen homeless people surrounded by shredded newspaper so many times before. He’s got a large book of local roadmaps right under the passenger seat. 

Turning to retrieve it, he’s interrupted by a slender figure sitting in the passenger seat. His eyes track up the blue jeans and old college sweatshirt until a familiar face is studying him carefully. 

“Rachel,” he breathes. 

She gives him a weak smile. It’s not friendly but it’s not threatening, it’s the kind of look she’d give him before asking something that she usually already knew the answer to. “Was he worth it?” She asks softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s wearing the gold studs he bought her for graduation more than a lifetime ago. 

“Worth what?” Patrick swallows. 

She glances at him before returning her gaze to the windshield. “If it all ends here, if this is it—was he worth it? Everything that lead you to this point?”

“Yes,” Patrick answers quickly and Rachel flinches at the speed and certainty of his response. He feels the familiar pang of guilt start to uncoil in his stomach. “I’m sorry, but yes.”

Rachel sighs and bobs her head, nodding slowly as she turns to look at him. “I really loved you, y’know.” Her voice cracks as she talks but she presses her lips together in a grim smile. 

“I loved you, too,” Patrick replies honestly and her tight smile softens into something kinder. 

“I know you did, Patrick. You wouldn’t have tried so hard if you hadn’t.” 

They both know that’s true. Patrick would have done anything for Rachel when they were young and it wasn’t because of blind denial. She was his best friend, his _best_ friend. She knew the corners of his soul better than he did, and maybe it was knowing him too well that kept her blind to the truth neither of them realised. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you wanted.” 

Rachel laughs softly. “You loved me just fine, probably too much for me to really see how unhappy you were.” Patrick wants to take her hand like he used to, wants to squeeze it tight and let her know he’s there. He doesn’t. The cold keeps his limbs close to his body. 

“It was never you. It wasn’t about you, it was me.” He’s had this conversation with her before. The years fall away and he feels like he’s standing in her room at the motel, terrified of losing David but equally crushed by the hurt on her face. 

“Patrick, I know that,” she whispers softly, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “You had to do what was best for you, for both of us. We’re both so much better off for it.” Rachel is married with two beautiful babies. He loves seeing all the pictures of her life on Facebook, loves watching her babies grow more and more into her double every day. 

“I’m so happy you’re happy—” he turns to say, but the seat beside him is empty. 

*

Patrick’s searching the back of the car for more road maps when he finds the neatly folded Canadian flag tucked into the pocket of the passenger seat. It’s from their stall at the last flea market on Canada Day. They’d hung it together, right above the Rose Apothecary banner, grinning at the excitement of finally being able to run a stall together now that they’d taken on more staff. He holds the flag close to his chest, remembering David’s animated hands as he talked to prospective vendors and customers all day. When Patrick had brought him back a fully loaded hotdog with extra cheese—David had looked at both Patrick and the hotdog with delighted want. 

Unravelling the flag in his hands, Patrick stares at the red stripes and leaf for a few long moments before finally tearing up on his knees. “A signal!” He announces to the empty car, turning back in his seat to roll the window down a few inches. 

He feeds the flag through the gap and into the snow, gasping as the frost grips his fingers. He opens the window a little more, pushing the flag out further until he’s pressed against the door. He feels the snow part with the tips of his fingers until he’s finally feeding the flag out of the top of the cave. 

“Yes!” Patrick calls, quickly pulling his arm back into the safety of the car. He shakes the snow away before cupping his fist in front of his mouth and blowing, the warmth burning his frozen skin. 

“Right. Maps. Warmth.” He nods, returning to his previous task. 

*

With the pages of two map books now ripped up, crumpled into balls and shoved along the vents, window edges and any other place heat can escape, Patrick melts another cup of snow water. 

He decides to fill the thermos this time so he won’t have to open the window for a while, and when he reaches blindly into his bag to retrieve it, his fingers brush against foil. 

Expecting it to be more migraine medication he pushes it aside, but quickly feels a thickness that couldn’t possibly be tablets. When he pulls out the protein bar, he almost yelps with delight. It’s one of the new ones from the store. _Frosted cranberry and white chocolate_. David’s been raving about how well they’ve been selling the whole time Patrick was ill. He must have packed it with the tea this morning. Yesterday morning? Patrick’s not sure. He hasn’t been following the time, which he knows is probably stupid. He fears the clock watching will drive him crazy quicker. 

He unwraps the protein bar, instantly hit with the sweet scent of fruit and oats. David always does little things like this when they’re spending the day apart, just a sweet little gesture to let Patrick know he’s thinking of him. When they first got together he’d leave notes, sometimes cute and sometimes filthy (and sometimes both), but through the years the notes have evolved into gestures, usually things he thinks Patrick will like or things he needs, like when he thought Patrick’s skin looked undernourished and packed him blueberry fruit pots for a month. 

Smiling sadly, Patrick breaks off half of the bar and rewraps the rest, returning it to his bag. He can’t think about that right now, about his caring husband who’s probably losing his mind somewhere wondering where Patrick is. He can’t think about how much he wants to be secure in David’s embrace or the possibility that there might come a day where everything he knows is gone. Despite trying to take tiny bites, the protein bar is over too soon and he ends up licking the sweetness from his fingertips. His stomach cramps around the small amount of food, the discomfort adding to the painful cramp he can feel growing in his left leg. 

He stuffs his good hand into his pocket and pulls out the meds, popping two from the blister packet. Now that he’s got some food in him, it should be ok to take a few more to keep the headaches at bay and help with the leg cramps. Patrick takes them with a mouthful of lukewarm water and stretches his legs out as much as he can, and waits for the numbness to find him. 

*

The sound of something heavy repeatedly slapping against well-worn leather rouses Patrick from the safety of sleep. The sound grates against his headache and he winces and groans like he’s about to tell whoever it is to _knock it off_. 

When his eyes finally do open, the sound becomes more than familiar. Sitting in the passenger seat, his high school best friend pounds a baseball into his glove like he’s trying to break it in. He used to do that a lot, whenever he was lost in thought, letting Patrick know he needed to be found. “Brewer.” The seventeen-year-old nods, jutting the sharp corners of his jaw in Patrick’s direction. He’s head to toe in baseball gear like they’re just about to head out to the pitch to play North Valley High, looking as nervous as he always did before a big game. 

“Hey, Marcus,” Patrick croaks, coughing and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. There’s a stretch of silence that makes Patrick’s skin feel itchy. 

“So, you like dudes…” Marcus finally says and even though it’s not a question Patrick nods anyway. “Have you always liked dudes?” Patrick’s answer catches in his throat. He takes a breath and flexes his fingers against the cold. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

Marcus nods slowly, rolling the baseball around in his hand. “Okay...I have to ask you something and I don’t want you to get weird about it - all right?” He turns to stare at Patrick. 

“Uhh, sure. Yeah, shoot…”

“Did you have a thing for me?” Patrick expects the question but his stomach still plummets when he hears it. He waits for the itching in his brain to clear before answering, as honestly as he can. 

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t know how aware of it I was at the time - but, yeah.”

Marcus purses his lips before letting them relax and slip slowly into a tight smirk. Patrick braces himself for the response. “Y’know, I always had a thing for Rachel.”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, I knew. You were never really subtle.” Which is true. Patrick would always catch him shooting longing glances across the classroom at Rachel, or showing up for all of her track team runs and watching intently. Marcus’ smirk turns into a full-on beaming grin as he flaps his glove open and closed. 

“Hey, if you would have realised you were all about the rainbows back then I would have _totally_ let you make out with me to get a date with Rachel.” 

Patrick laughs, the sound booming in his chest so much it almost hurts his ears. It’s the loudest sound he’s heard in god knows how many hours. When he settles, Marcus has relaxed back into the seat a little. He looks a little sadder now that the amusement has slipped away, and Patrick feels a pang of guilt twinge inside of him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry for not realising and not letting you in.” 

Marcus gives him a kind smile as he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize to me, man. Apologize to yourself.”

Patrick looks down at his hands, and when he looks back up - Marcus is gone. 

*

“Hey, hey, man—are you alright? You don’t look so hot.” 

Patrick wakes to pain radiating through his wrist and the bitter taste of migraine medication crushed into his back teeth. The voice is instantly familiar like he’s trying to coax himself from sleep. He blinks blearily into the blue light, a blur of solid red and black shifting back and forth in his peripheral vision. 

“Muh?” he yawns, ignoring the popping in his ears as he blinks until the blob of colour clears into a hockey shirt—his local team hockey shirt. Patrick hasn’t seen that since he was sixteen. 

“Christ, man—you look like hell,” the familiar voice says in kind, his brown eyes soft and helmeted head tipping in concern. Patrick blinks again and then startles. It’s himself sitting in that passenger seat, so young and hopeful and blissfully ignorant. 

“Hey,” Patrick says because he can’t think of anything else to offer. 

His teenage self presses his lip into a tight line and nods. “Hey. For a second there I didn’t think you’d wake up.” There’s a cold haze over Patrick’s world that he’s become accustomed to, so much so that now he struggles to imagine ever leaving it. 

“In all honesty, I’m not sure I’m awake right now,” Patrick replies lowly, folding his arms tight against his chest. 

Young Patrick quirks a knowing smile before tipping his head back in his seat. “Man, and I thought falling through the ice on the lake by Uncle Joe’s was cold.” 

Patrick remembers the sting of the water swallowing him, robbing the air from lungs for the few seconds he was submerged before his uncle yanked him back to the surface. It felt like he’d never be warm again, like the cold had settled into his bones never to be thawed. He’d take that every day for the rest of his life if it meant he’d be free of this cave again—if it meant he got to see David again. 

“God, I miss David,” Patrick croaks, eyes too dry to let the tears he wants to let go fall. It’s taken all of his strength not to let the warm thoughts of his husband flood him with every dip in and out of consciousness. As if this is his last line of defense, an attempt to take charge of his mind and not succumb to the fear that he’ll never see his husband again. Because right now, that’s the only thing about death that terrifies him. 

“You must really love him,” young Patrick says. 

“So fucking much,” Patrick whimpers. 

Young Patrick sighs. “I’m glad you at least got to feel that—know what that’s like.” 

Patrick closes his eyes and focuses on the next breath, just trying to hold his splitting mind together for a little longer. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly when he finally opens his eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. I’m sorry you struggled for so long.”

Young Patrick gives a small smile and shrugs. “Didn’t really know I was struggling at the time.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry. I’m sorry for everything, that you didn’t get to be who you really were for so long.” Patrick can feel his voice cracking as it fills with too much. 

“I guess it just made everything with David more special.”

Patrick licks his dry lips and nods. “Yeah.” 

Young Patrick glances up at the sunroof and then out to the windshield before shaking his head like he can’t believe after everything this is where he ends up. “Can I ask you something personal?”

Patrick smiles weakly. “I think it’s all personal between us… what is it?” Young Patrick bites his lip for a second, looking bashful like he’d blush if it were warmer. 

“What’s sex with David like?” 

Patrick coughs out a laugh, shocked but somehow not surprised. To be honest - he’d ask the same thing. “Incredible,” he replies quickly. “I’ve never felt as complete as I do when I’m with him.”

Young Patrick nods slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “And, Uh… do you play, uhm… both parts?”

Patrick would grin if he thought his lips could take it. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool, and...does it...hurt? Like, a lot?”

He manages a smirk. “No, not really. A little at first, but it’s more than worth it.” He stops to sigh and push the image of David’s sweating smiling perfect face above his to the back of his mind. “He always makes it worth it.”

Young Patrick blinks those baby brown eyes at Patrick and smiles. “Good,” he whispers, and when Patrick looks away to the window, he knows he’s alone again. 

*

There’s probably not much life left in the car battery. Patrick sips weakly at his thermos of melted snow. He blinks heavily, fighting the urge to sleep even though that’s all he seems to be doing between cups of tepid water and the bitter taste of migraine medication. This constant state of drowsiness isn’t healthy, he knows that for sure, but it’s better than being driven insane with blinding, crushing pain. 

His stomach aches and he’s not sure if it’s the cold, hunger or the constant stream of stale warm water filtering through his body. The taste of the protein bar feels like a distant memory, like a whole lifetime has passed between now and then. 

An idea drags itself lazily through Patrick’s already hazy mind, and with what little energy he has left he reaches deep into the glovebox. To his complete surprise, he pulls out a small bar of chocolate. He laughs, but the sound comes out as more of a joyful crow. 

It’s David’s chocolate, a forgotten bar from their last road trip together to Toronto for their anniversary. David had eaten three bars in a row and spent the rest of the journey whining about a stomach ache, glaring at Patrick every time he pointed out David had no one to blame but his own chocolate addiction. 

God, he misses the arsenal of expressions his husband possesses, a whole range of eyebrow arches and mouth contortions that always perfectly display his every mood. Patrick loves being able to read David—his face Patrick’s favourite book. 

He unwraps the chocolate slowly, sliding it between his lips in hopes to block the sob that desperately wants to escape. It doesn’t work, and with what feels like perhaps the last few drops of moisture in his body, Patrick cries. 

*

The crumpled wrapper falls into the footwell as Patrick shifts in his seat. 

“You know that wrapper _is_ recyclable.” 

He sniffles, closes his eyes and huffs out a small, soft laugh. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

When Patrick looks up, he’s both sad and delighted to find his husband staring back at him, dressed in the sweater from their first date and smirking at him in that kind way that always makes Patrick feel weak. 

“You know I prefer to be fashionably late,” David says.

Patrick hums, feeling instantly warmer. “I know.”

“Also,” David adds, drumming his fingers on his knees. “You ate all my chocolate.”

“I love you… so much,” Patrick whispers. 

“I know you do, but that still doesn’t bring back my chocolate,” David grins. 

Letting his eyes drift closed, Patrick leans back into the headrest and sighs deeply. “Will you complain while I fall asleep?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

David’s voice is tinny and distant but Patrick is too exhausted to open his eyes again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Patrick,” David says. “Patrick? Patrick.” 

The steady call of his own name beats against Patrick like a drum like he can feel it pounding with his heart even as it becomes more distant. 

Eventually, the syllables of his name disappear until the noise is just dull thud, ticking away into the distance as Patrick lets his body roll steadily towards sleep again. But the thud doesn’t let him. It grows, it deepens and expands until he can feel it in his fingertips. 

The car shakes with the sound, like the snow is getting heavier and is about to cave in. Patrick loses himself in the blackness behind his closed eyelids, and it takes several long stretching moments before he can pick out his name from the sounds. 

He looks up, cracking his sore eyes open just as small crevices of light start to breakthrough the sunroof. 

“..._Patrick_...”

It’s one voice and then two, and then more and more like there’s a choir calling for him as the snow falls away from the roof. Any other man would probably question if it were God calling to collect him, but Patrick knows those gloves that scrabble away the snow, letting a familiar shadow of a face loom over him. 

“Patrick! Oh my god, Patrick!” David bangs on the sunroof like it’ll melt if he pounds hard enough, his calls less muffled with the snow cleared. Through his frozen lashes, Patrick can see David’s face a little clearer, from his chapped lips to the unbridled relief brimming in his eyes. 

“David,” Patrick croaks, his voice wet with the sob that comes next as he reaches up weakly towards his husband. 

“I’m here, honey,” David says, eyes rimmed red like the cold is the only thing stopping the tears. “Oh my god, I’m so glad to see your face.” 

“—We need to get the sunroof open…”

“—Battery is probably dead…”

“—Get the crowbar…”

“David,” Patrick whimpers, because it’s the only word he can say right now, the only word he needs to say. 

David presses his gloved hand to the glass. “I’m coming.”

“Patrick, we’re gonna get you out of there, hang on…” grey hair and a winter coat join David, and the worried face attached to it makes Patrick want to reach out again. 

“Dad!” he chokes. 

“I’m gonna pop the sunroof open so we can get to you, then we’ll pull the car out - okay?” Patrick nods. “Alright, son. Just stay put.” 

David’s hand stays glued to the glass, even when it shifts with the crowbar. There’s a loud crunch and Patrick half expects it to shatter, but it pops open with an awful sound, letting a wave of frozen air rush in. 

When David lowers himself into the car, knocking snow over them both, Patrick doesn’t know who reaches for who first. 

“Sweetheart,” David sobs, pulling off a glove so he can press his cold fingertips to Patrick’s cheek. He looks lost and found as he stares at Patrick like he’s a dream, and Patrick can’t help but take a moment to just drink in the sight of David’s pale and tired face, unkempt hair and days of coarse stubble. He turns and kisses David’s hand with numb lips before pulling his husband into a gripping hug. 

“You found me,” Patrick whispers and David sobs again, nodding and sniffling into Patrick’s neck. 

*

They keep hold of each other as voices work around them, Patrick’s heart beating hard in his chest with a fear that this too is all just in his mind. He clings to David until his fingers burn, just to remind himself that this is real. 

David whispers softly to Patrick, telling him he’s safe and how much David loves him. Patrick wants to close his eyes but can’t, can't stop staring at his hand that’s wrapped over David’s shoulder. 

There’s clambering on the roof again and Patrick looks up to see his father’s face. He reaches in and presses his hand to Patrick’s head and Patrick pushes up to the familiar warmth. 

“We’ve dug as much as we can. We’re gonna pull you out with the truck now, okay, son?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers and his father smiles weakly, keeping his hand in Patrick’s hair for another moment longer before disappearing again. 

A short moment later, there’s a violent clanging sound and the car jerks back. Patrick whimpers, but David shushes him and holds him tighter. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” he repeats over and over, pressing soft kisses to Patrick’s ear. 

When the majority of the car is free from the cave and flooded with daylight, Patrick squints and lets out an uneasy breath against David’s shoulder. 

“I got you,” David whispers. “I’m right here.” 

As Patrick nods, the driver’s side door is pulled open, letting even more cold in. A rescue blanket is quickly thrown over Patrick’s shoulders, and strong hands start to guide him out of David’s embrace. 

“Come on, son, let’s get you out of here,” his father says, and Patrick quickly realises he’s supposed to use his legs now. 

Suddenly there’s a rush of people, and David is back at his side as soon as he gets his feet on the ground. David and Clint take Patrick’s weight, holding him steady as Patrick blinks against the daylight. 

“Patrick!” It’s his mother and she’s sobbing with pure relief, one hand resting on Patrick’s bound wrist and the other on the side of his head as she kisses his forehead over and over again. “My sweet boy, you’re safe.”

“Let’s get him out of here, Marcy,” Clint says softly, but Marcy simply moves to David to kiss his temple. 

“You did it, you found our boy. Thank you, David,” she gushes before finally stepping aside. 

The small crowd around them is full of familiar faces, all bundled up in winter clothing with shovels in their hands. The rest of the Roses, Stevie, the Schitts, the Jazzagals and various other friends, all wearing the same look of utter relief. Even through the exhaustion, Patrick is overwhelmed. 

He’s carried to the waiting ambulance that arrived just as the car was pulled free, and David and Marcy quickly clamber in behind him. There’s a rush of questions and touches all over him as the EMTs start their assessments, but through it all, he can feel David’s fingers curled around his own, and that’s all that matters. 

*

For the first twelve hours of being in hospital, Patrick dips in and out of consciousness—but mostly out. He’s heavily dehydrated and his wrist is fractured, but luckily the town got to him before the cold did. He can still feel it in his bones each time he wakes, but he’s not sure how much of that is psychological. Three days he was trapped. Well, only just. He was rescued early morning on the third day, but still, Patrick’s astonished by how much time had passed. 

When he first wakes up attached to a drip, a young doctor with a kind face gives him a stern lecture about misusing the migraine medication before sighing and admitting that, in this case, it probably helped him more than harmed. In her lecture, she rattles off the negative side effects, and when she says _hallucinations_ he does his best to school his expression. He doesn’t want to be quite so honest about everything, not right now anyway. 

David stays close most of the time, which is why when Patrick wakes again he’s surprised to find his dad sat at his bedside. 

“Hi, son,” he whispers, and Patrick croaks out a greeting and asks where everyone (meaning David and his mother) is. Clint smiles and gestures over his shoulder, shifting to the side so Patrick can see David and Marcy sleeping side by side on the small couch at the end of the room. Patrick can’t help but match his father’s expression. 

“How long have they been out?” He asks quietly. 

“About an hour,” Clint replies, leaning back in so he brushes a soft hand through Patrick’s hair. “They’ve been nonstop for the last few days. We all have.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Patrick admits only to have his father tap at his shoulder and scowl. 

“You’re my son, Patrick. You’re my _only_ son. I’d walk to hell and back for you.” 

“I know, but I’m still sorry. I can’t imagine what you guys must have been through.”

Clint sighs deeply, glancing back at their spouses momentarily. “David was actually pretty amazing. Your mother and I were useless when we arrived, wrecked with worry. The police couldn’t conduct proper searches due to the weather and there were so many missing people from every town. But David got everyone together, got Ronnie and Bob and Roland out looking for you all day and night with their trucks. He coordinated everything.”

Patrick feels the warmth of pride spreading through his chest as he watches his sleeping husband breathe peacefully. He feels exhausted like he’s never experienced before, and all he wants is David in his arms in _their_ bed. 

“He’s David Rose,” is all Patrick can think to say, and Clint quickly nods in agreement. 

“He’s incredible. He’s been a rock for your mother and me.” He pauses to squeeze Patrick’s arm gently. “He loves you so much. We all love you so much, Patrick. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re alright.” 

Clint’s eyes water and soon Patrick’s follow suit. He clutches his father’s hand as they watch their family rest, wanting to breathe in the moment for as long as the fatigue will allow. 

*

It takes two days for Patrick to recover enough to go home; two long days of drips and visits and awful hospital food and overbearing care. Patrick’s done with being confined, he wants his space and his husband and his life back. 

There’s a lot of convincing involved to get his parents to go home. They insist on seeing Patrick home, and Patrick allows it on the condition they leave soon after. He loves his parents, more than anything, they’ve been truly amazing over the last few days but Patrick’s tired of being fragile. When David sees them off, hugging Marcy for longer than Patrick’s ever seen him hug his own relatives, he too looks relieved to be surrounded by the familiar silence of their home. 

Patrick smiles from the couch and shifts the blanket aside, patting the empty spot beneath it. 

“I need a hubby hug,” Patrick pouts somewhat pathetically, but David laughs and scoots in next to him beneath the blanket, wrapping Patrick in his long arms and planting a firm kiss to his temple. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs and Patrick sighs contently. 

“I’ve never been so happy to be me.”

David smiles into Patrick’s hair and takes a shaky breath like he does when he’s trying not to cry. 

“I’m happy you’re you, too.”


End file.
